


He goes back to Venice

by Caladenia



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Angst, Beyer-verse, Book: Full Circle - Kirsten Beyer, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Relaunch Fic, Venice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:08:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23240746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caladenia/pseuds/Caladenia
Summary: During the year following Kathryn Janeway's death, Chakotay returns to Venice.
Relationships: Chakotay/Kathryn Janeway
Comments: 24
Kudos: 34
Collections: Janeway/Chakotay Trope fics, Voyager Relaunch Fic





	He goes back to Venice

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AdmiralKatCornwellfan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdmiralKatCornwellfan/gifts).



> My thanks to Killermanatee for making sure the fic stuck to the events of Full Circle and Chakotay’s feelings throughout the year after Kathryn Janeway's death.  
> And my thanks to Arcadia1995’s [Tumblr post](https://arcadia1995.tumblr.com/post/174133841089/full-circle-discussion-star-trek-voyager-book) which summarised Full Circle’s timelines in the first place, because that book is such a mess from that point of view.

* * *

**June**

He’d come for her in the early days of June when the waters in the canals were still cool and fluffy clouds dotted the bright blue sky. The smell of fresh bread and coffee flooded the streets, throngs of early tourists taking in the atmosphere without haste.

Gift in hand, Chakotay settled at a café just a few minutes walk from the transporter. People passed by, lovers kissed in the shadows of the old walls, pigeons and the laughs of kids with gelato in their hands rising high over the small piazza. He waited until dusk stretched well into the evening. Somehow, when it came to Kathryn Janeway, it seemed he was always waiting.

It had been almost a decade; years and days and hours of expectation and anticipation at what might be. Then one more year of delay before they could deepen and reaffirm what they had become together.

At the end, all that time and hope and faith tumbled down on the cobblestones with the words of the man telling him the news that she was dead. He had done all the waiting he could, but it had not been enough. The glass from his gift only reflected the street lights rather than her face, and he left it behind.

She would never be coming to him.

**⁂**

**August**

He goes back to Venice in the middle of summer. He doesn’t know why. Cambridge would call it an overdose of self-torture, and he sure doesn’t tell the counsellor. The holodeck program is sealed with his command code, a couple of Borg algorithms thrown in which no Starfleet personnel except for his former _Voyager_ crew will have a clue about. He's learnt a thing or two in the seven years he spent as commander of a lost ship and its motley crew.

As soon as he steps over the holodeck threshold, the dank odour of still water sticks to him like an environmental suit worn for far too long. He ploughs through the voices and noises of the tourists and peddlers who have squeezed the local inhabitants out of their streets and shops.

A small alley beckons, out of the harsh sun and mindless crowd. He glances through heavy doors left ajar at the winding staircases with their scuffed steps, the peeling wall paint, the high ceilings stooped under the weight of too many centuries. Dark entrances to a timeworn world that tastes of decay.

He steps inside one of those silent and cool spaces. In the corners stand yellowing marble statues, cracked and missing noses and arms. Above them, large paintings hang at an angle, heavily gilded frames surrounding bucolic scenes set among ancient ruins, elegant figures capturing love with their shepherd crooks. In others, grim faces with lidded eyes look down at him from the centuries.

There are no signs of life here, no sounds from the multitudes only a street away. Everything is muted, and even the sun is banned from entering those halls. It's a world that is standing still, steeped in memories and shackled to a long gone past.

A dark, dead world that drowns him.

He turns around and leaves.

Five days later, he destroys the Orion ship _Voyager_ had been pursuing and feels nothing.

Not anger. Not anger at her, despite what Cambridge dares say to his face. Never at her.

Never.

**⁂**

**October**

It’s been four months now, four long grieving months of pain and booze and self-destruction, and he still doesn’t know where he stands. Everywhere on _Voyager_ reeks of her, of her hands on the consoles, her smirk at Tom’s latest quip. He sits in her seat, uses her replicator, sleeps in her bed.

She surrounds him.

Strangles him.

He is still standing though, while early on he was ready to surrender to chaos. The days are a little easier to go through, thanks to a mission which does not leave him much leisure to stop and reflect. On a rare day he’s got free, he goes back to the Venice program once more.

The holodeck door opens on a bitter cold autumn day. Swallows mob the antique electrical lines crisscrossing the upper reaches of the streets. Both birds and tourists are leaving, the fabled city shaking off the swarm of people that occupied it during the warmer months.

He follows the biting sea breeze, and soon finds himself out of the town, hiking the length of the monumental seawall which has been keeping the Adriatic Sea at bay for more than two centuries. It’s not a place many tourists seek, he suspects. Too much a reminder Venice is a few feet away from disappearing into a watery grave. People on Earth, he’s learnt over the years spent there, take history seriously, but they prefer it tangible—as if it guarantees that it will last forever. They like memorials they can see and touch. There are few ancestors’ stories here, few dreams. And when monuments disappear, they forget so easily that the past ever existed.

He’s got the place to himself, with the salt-laden wind and the churning waters its only companions. It suits his mood to be alone, to stand aside from the bustle of the crowd and crew, and the busy business of command. The old squat buildings of the city glow in the afternoon sun poking through laden skies, a maze of pink tiles and white stone walls.

His mind goes back to his first ever visit to this city he knows little about. It was too long ago for him to remember much of that single kiss they had early in their journey home. He carried that fading recollection within him for a long time, but where they stood exactly or even the time of the day have gone missing into bygone days. The holodeck might have those details in its memory core, but it’s not worth trawling through all the iterations of the program.

And, to be frank, who he was, what he hoped for them at the time, are hardly expectations he wants to revive now.

That one night on Proxima Station wiped the slate clean of a past which had gone nowhere fast, and sealed their pledge for a brighter future, one they would make together. For ten long months in deep space, long-range comms conversations fed his love for the woman over the light-years of separation. And like an albatross coming back to solid land to meet his mate after a year at sea, he’d come back for her in Venice, their bond to be renewed, the circle to be closed.

Or so he’d hoped.

When he thinks of Venice in the weeks after, the low sky, the chilly breeze and the fast-moving clouds come foremost to his mind rather than the sound of broken glass on the pavement.

He will come back. Because though she is not there, she should have been, and he cannot let go of that promise.

**⁂**

**December**

He’s got the holodeck for himself and books a room in one of the Renaissance palaces that dot the city. The freezing wind fights him until he reaches the portico of the hotel. An old-fashioned butler ushers him, and he enters a world which has already become achingly familiar after barely three visits.

Streaks of rain hit the French doors of the room overlooking a narrow canal, its waters roiling about. He has no intention of doing anything else than watch the stormy evening from his four-poster bed, his nose in a book and a bottle of something strong by his hand. It has been six months of hell and the weather he’s programmed agrees with him. He would have hated to see blue skies and feel the warmth of the sun on his shoulders again.

However, he becomes restless and, despite his intentions, he is soon out in the rain and wind again, ignoring the look of concern from the butler at the door. He walks until his feet hurt from pacing the cobbled streets. A ship captain, he is more used to grey carpet and short corridors, but now the streets are flooding, and soon he is striding through water, his feet turning to ice. Most of the tourist attractions are closed, and he finds refuge in small alleyways which shield him a little from the almost horizontal rain.

A small church beckons, the flame of a few tall candles bending as he pushes open the leather-clad door to the side of the larger stone portal. The wind howls behind him until the door shuts close like an airlock, and only the marble floor echoes under his sodden boots.

Carvings, statues and old darkened paintings vie for his attention. Although he can appreciate the workmanship in many of the objects he sees, much of the imagery escapes him. He feels an intruder in a sacred space he has no right to enter until a statue arrests his eyes. The young mother, her face half-hidden, holds a child in her arms, offering him to the world. The small boy raises his hand in greeting, the other holding a golden globe with a cross on top.

“You have good taste. Fifteenth century, the experts say, although we don’t know who the artist was.”

Chakotay turns his head and has to lift his eyes to meet his companion’s. Where he had expected an old man in a friar’s clothes, his guide is in his late twenties, wearing a long black coat over a thin tall frame.

“I am sorry,” Chakotay says. “I thought the church empty. I was in need of shelter from the weather.”

“Then I am glad your feet guided you here, my son.”

While the salutation sounds strange coming from the much younger man, Chakotay doesn’t take umbrage. “Are you the priest who officiates here?”

“Here and in other churches nearby. My flock is few in numbers and many of my congregation are elderly. I go to where they are, but this church is where I say the Sunday mass. Are you a believer in the Christian creed?”

“My beliefs are more ancient, and I admit to knowing of yours only through studies when I was a cadet at Starfleet Academy.”

The man smiles. “I thought you were Starfleet. The way you hold yourself, as if anchored in the present and yet your eyes and mind roam far and wide.”

It’s a statement that has no need for a reply, and Chakotay offers none.

The man turns his attention back to the statue. “I was keen to join Starfleet when I was a teenager. I was seeking to lose myself in something which was much bigger, much grander than me. Unfortunately, the sight of the great void that surrounds this planet and fills this galaxy was too much. I gave up on my dream after only one year at the Academy.”

“You don’t seem disappointed.”

“I was at first, of course. Who doesn’t dream of going to the stars and see so much more than the plot of land you were born on. But once I started my theological studies, I found that there were strong similarities between Starfleet and the priesthood, and the same qualities can be found in those who listen to their calling. You are a Starfleet officer yourself, and a spiritual man I believe. Haven’t you thought the same?”

“I keep my beliefs separate from my work.” And that is the truth. Starfleet is opened to all creeds, but to a point.

The man puts his hand on Chakotay’s shoulder. “Then, I do hope that your faith helps you carry the great sadness I sense in you.”

Chakotay stiffens. He is hardly going to unburden his soul onto a holodeck program. However, the priest is already pulling back. “My apologies. Comes with the job, I’m afraid.” He waves at the vast space under the tall columns and vaulted ceilings. “Would you like to know more about this little church while you wait for a respite from the winter storm?”

The rain is pelting down the glazed windows, and staying in the hotel room has lost its attraction. Chakotay isn’t ready to go back to _Voyager_ ’s warm and dry corridors, either. This building and its symbolism, for all they are mere holographic mirages, are deeply embedded in a world Kathryn would have found fascinating, and the thought comforts him.

The priest is waiting patiently, and Chakotay nods. “Thank you, I’d like that.”

They slowly walk the ambulatory, stepping around buckets catching the rain. “We can only stretch the maintenance budget so far,” the man explains, pointing at the leaky roof. He is a fount of knowledge, and soon they are discussing art and archaeology as they stroll past small treasures. Chakotay learns of Venetian politics and the rise and fall of the city-state during the Medieval period. The priest is curious about the role of oral history in maintaining spiritual practices, bombarding Chakotay with questions. He is happy to answer, forgetting for a while that the man by his side is only a hologram.

“What are those qualities you thought common to Starfleet and your Church?” Chakotay asks as they end their perambulation at the altar, a large wooden cross looking down at them. Agony is etched on the figure’s grieving face, in the contortion of the feet and legs, in the clawed fingers. Drops of blood, carefully carved in relief, run down the ivory skin from the hands, feet and chest wounds. It’s an image of pain and suffering which draws Chakotay and repulses him in equal measures.

The priest does not seem surprised the conversation has gone full circle to the subject of discussion half an hour earlier. “The search for a higher purpose to life and the universe. Discipline. Humility in front of the unknown. Personal courage.”

Chakotay is not so sure about the humility part. He’s met his fair share of arrogant ‘fleeters.

The priest lifts his head, looking with affection at the suffering man above. “Those who are called might waver and, at times, question their beliefs and chosen path, but they rarely hesitate in sacrificing themselves when the circumstances demand it. Not just to save lives, but more importantly in the hope they are saving souls. And that is the greatest gift of all to offer the ones who are left behind to live in their shadows, don’t you think?”

The priest turns with a radiant smile on his face, and the hole that has been growing inside Chakotay’s chest since Kathryn’s death deepens and darkens all of a sudden. He stumbles backwards past the empty benches, past the statue of the mother and her child, almost tripping over the wooden sill of the side door. He gives the weather no thought as he rushes back into the flooded street and orders the computer to end the holodeck programme.

Nobody sees him collapsing in the corridor, a puddle of water spreading around him. All he can see is a Borg ship exploding in silence, Kathryn’s atoms scattered into the night. And he hates himself that he wasn’t there to stop her, and he hates her for sacrificing herself once again and dying alone.

**⁂**

**June**

He has returned to Venice, the real thing this time, the city where they’d planned to spend a few days together a year ago.

The noise and crowd are what he craves now that he’s got all the time in the world in front of him. No more orders, no more missions after his sudden resignation from Starfleet, and he spends the morning sight-seeing. He walks the famous bridges he had avoided previously, smiles at the antics of the gondoliers and the grumbling of the tourists. He loses himself into others’ lives, lapping their energy and verve until midday pushes them all into nearby restaurants. He stops too, the smells making him dizzy with memories. Maybe he is gathering courage for what he needs to do later, but he does not think that much ahead.

In the late afternoon, he’s back in his hotel room. He pushes the chairs and table towards the wall, then undresses until only his boxer shorts remain. The hairs on his arms and at the back of his neck rise by their own volition when he gracefully sits cross-legged on the dark wooden floor and opens his medicine bundle.

He calms his heart, then says the sacred words. He does not ask the spirits for their help this time. Since his last vision quest on a wind-swept island a few months before, he’s left them well alone. This time, he seeks Kathryn herself in the only place she would be. They had made a promise to meet not on _Voyager_ , not in the Delta quadrant, not in another anonymous room on a space station, but here, on Earth, in this ancient city. Like so many people before them, they’d been ready to weave a new memory to add to the long history of the place. A memory for them alone. A story to be told and re-told for the rest of their lives together.

So, he searches for her in the land of the spirits, and he calls her again and again throughout the night, expecting a sign, a word, a cry that she too is looking for him. That she has not forgotten him. But he can't find her. She is lost to him, and hours later, he’s back in the hotel room now bathed in morning sunshine.

He is alone in Venice, between the cool waters and the bright blue sky with its fluffy clouds.

**Author's Note:**

> From a prompt by AdmiralKatCornwellfan back in September 2019:  
>  _now i have this image of Chakotay drawing a pentagram with coffee beans in the middle of his bedroom, and at the five points there are cups of finest, freshly brewed Arabica.  
>  there are scented candles and rose petals in the room too.  
> and he is wearing silk boxers.  
> he is summoning Janeway_  
> I went a bit darker.


End file.
